


AUs: From Androids to Zombies

by Cup_aTea



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Demons, Trope-like substances, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cup_aTea/pseuds/Cup_aTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D is for Demons</p><p>“Twelve targets down, Black Widow still at large,” Barton breathed, praying that the comm in his ear would pick it up, but the demon below him wouldn’t.</p><p>No such luck.  The demon’s head shot up as his comm crackled out, “Hawkeye, do you have the shot?”</p><p>In his ear, Coulson repeated the question and the demon’s face swung in his direction.  A slow smile played along its lips.</p><p>“Come out, come out wherever you are,” she singsonged in perfect American English.</p><p> </p><p> <br/><i> This is not a Supernatural au, but there are demon possession funtimes.</i><br/><i>An A-Z collection of AU Marvel drabbles.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Androids

**Author's Note:**

> A while back I got the idea of doing a set of AU stories spanning the entire English alphabet. I decided to start this drabble series and work my way from A-Z. So far I have some of the chapters written/planned out, but feel free to give any suggestions for letters. A is for Androids, S is for Strippers...you know the drill. ;)
> 
> This work is unbeta'd; mistakes are entirely my own.

Rumors abounded in SHEILD about the organization’s most unflappable agent, Agent Coulson, also known as Fury’s good eye. The rumors ranged from plausible to absurd. Hell, the newest batch of recruits seemed convinced that he slept in his office hanging upside down from the ceiling. Coulson knew that most of SHIELD thought he was an android. It was an easy conclusion to jump to, considering Howard Stark’s involvement in the earlier years at SHIELD and his barely secret Level 3 Android & Robotics Program. There were androids among SHIELD’s agents, but Coulson wasn’t one of them.

Barton, on the other hand…

Coulson strode through the doors of Tony Stark’s private lab in Stark Tower. Tony was already there at work, tools in hand. Barton’s frame was resting face down in a maintenance sling. His back was open, circuitry exposed to Tony’s delicate fingers.

“Agent,” Tony called out. “Glad you made it. I expected you here an hour ago.”

“Stark,” Coulson acknowledged. He looked over Tony’s shoulder, and his face softened. “How is he?”

Tony leaned back from where he had been bending over Clint and stretched his back. “Not as bad as JARVIS was anticipating, actually. The damage to his language processors was superficial. I’ve already got it taken care of so his speech should be back to normal when we wake him up. His back and shoulder where he absorbed most of the fall is where he needs the most work. I’ve got the specs from his last physical pulled up and JARVIS is running a side-by-side comparison with Cap’s scans,” he said, indicated the glowing screen off to the right.

“Long story short,” Tony said, “it’s gonna be a few hours. At least. I’m not sure how much rebuilding I’m going to have to do yet.”

Coulson swallowed dryly. “Can I speak to him?”

Tony shook his head. “I’ve got him doing a full reboot and defrag while he’s down. It should help to process the trauma and reset his speech systems. It’s not going to be done for another—JARVIS?”

“Four point five hours in my current estimation, Agent Coulson.”

Coulson sighed. “All right. I’ll head upstairs and start the mission report. Keep me updated.” He clasped Tony’s shoulder for a second. “Thanks, Tony.”

Tony smiled a little. “Any time, Phil. Any time.”

\---

Phil settled in on the couch, working from the coffee table in the apartment that he and Clint shared in Stark Tower. He opened his laptop and began working on his formal mission report.

His first visitor was Natasha, who supposedly dropped by for a debrief, but Phil knew her well enough to know when she was offering comfort. She and Phil discussed the mission, but Phil caught her gaze flickering to the screen where he had pulled up the security footage of Stark’s lab. All was quiet on that front: Tony was working steadily, with the kind of focus he only had when he was deep in a project, and the work looked to be progressing smoothly, if slowly.

Steve’s visit later was more awkward. The big man had come in with a chagrinned look and offered him a pot of fresh chicken noodle soup. Even though he didn’t need to eat, Steve had discovered he loved to cook. It was obvious that he wanted to do something to help, even though he couldn't be of any use in the lab. Phil accepted the food graciously, and tried to reassure the Captain.

“Phil, I just want you to know,” Steve said on his way out the door. “I want to help any way I can. I’ve told Tony that if he needs to access any of my circuits for any reason, or even any spare parts, he’s welcome to them. I can wait for repairs if Clint needs them.”

Phil sighed internally. “I know Steve, and thank you. But we don’t want to compromise you, just to fix Clint. If another crisis comes up, we’ll need you on the field.”

“But you…he’s your…” Steve stumbled over the words.

“He is, and I want him back, Steve. But that doesn’t mean dismantling you. Tony just needs a little time, and then Clint will be just fine.”

He gently ushered Steve out the door and hoped his words were true.

\---

Phil was woken in the small hours of the night by the slight noise of the door. He cracked an eyelid and saw Clint creeping inside. The archer was halfway to the couch when he saw Phil was awake.

“No, don’t wake up,” Clint said softly.

“Too late,” Phil said, stretching with a groan. His body was not meant for falling asleep sitting up anymore.

Clint scooted in beside him, and Phil pulled him down for a kiss. When they broke apart he whispered, “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” Clint agreed before kissing Phil again.

“Never jump off a building without a safety line again,” Phil said when they came up for air.

“Sure thing, boss,” Clint said cheekily. Phil swatted him.

“What did Tony say?” he asked.

“Everything’s working normally,” Clint said. “He did a basic checkup and ran me through some coordination tests. But he’s going to do more extensive testing in the morning.”

“Tony Stark, electing to leave the lab before dawn? Unbelievable,” Phil murmured, nipping a gentle line of kisses down Clint’s neck.

“Oh, he was still in the lab when I left,” Clint said, settling further into Phil’s lap. “But he said that it was very important for me to have a full night’s sleep to make sure everything’s reset properly.”

Phil paused where he kissing Clint’s collarbone.

“I don’t want to know what he actually said, do I?” he said in his ‘distinctly –unamused’ voice.

Clint grinned. “Nah. It was very…suggestive. Not very professional at all.”

“Hmm, well in that case, I guess I should take you to bed.”

“Yeah?” Clint moaned as Phil pulled him to his feet.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel a little bad for making Clint non-human because I think it's a very important part of his character. But not that bad. 
> 
> Up next: Bakery AU


	2. Bakery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B is for Bakery: Phil is just a humble IRS accountant tasked with the challenge of auditing _Hawkeye's Bakery_. Clint is the rebellious young owner with a heart of gold, and a dangerously delicious oatmeal cookie recipe. 
> 
> Guess who's been watching 'Stranger than Fiction'? The bakery scenes are some of my favourite parts, and I couldn't help picturing Phil and Clint in them. Cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a picture of Jeremy Renner's Brian Gamble in my head for this fic, if you're wondering about age/tattoo possibilities.
> 
> Characters belong to Marvel. The scenes are directly inspired by the movie Stranger than Fiction. I have tried to mark any lines taken from the movie with a (*), but some may have been accidently overlooked.

Phil Coulson straightened his tie as he paused in front of _Hawkeye’s_ , a bakery that was the latest on a long list of businesses awaiting audits. Phil suspected that this particular business might prove to be more challenging than some judging by the letter that opened, “Dear Imperialist Swine*,” which had been included with their paperwork. Stepping through the door, equipped with an actual bell that jangled overhead, Phil took in the eating area. It had a warm atmosphere, with a rustic look that spoke of hand-done work. There were tables and chairs that looked like they were from real logs, sanded and polished to a smooth finish. The counter was equally unpretentious, with mason jars and old containers that had been repurposed.

Phil was glad he had gone with an understated look—a gray suit and lavender tie—not too officious, but still professional. _Hawkeye’s_ was located in a neighborhood that was known for its liberal crowd--the kind of granola eaters and guerilla gardeners who were likely to go on the defensive at the sight of a taxman in an expensive black suit. He was hoping the more casual gray combined with his usual disarming smile would be enough to start things off on the right foot.

Phil got in line and waited patiently to make his way up to the counter. There was a short woman running the register, with cool eyes and a collected expression that Phil almost envied. When he asked to speak to Clint Barton she eyed him from behind a red curl that had escaped her silk headwrap.

“Clint,” the redheaded woman called to her co-worker, “this one’s for you.”

“Huh?” was the inarticulate response from the young man—Barton, that would be Clint Barton, the owner on her left. He was kneading a round of dough and clearly hadn’t been paying attention. His sleeveless black t-shirt and black apron were covered with flour.

“Customer,” the woman answered, and Phil hoped he wasn’t reading too much into her frosty tone.

“Uh, hi,” said the young man, straightening up, but not stopping his motions. “What can I do for you?”

Phil’s careful eye took in with interest the fine layer of flour that dusted across the man’s nose in place of freckles, but he shoved the observation aside as he tried to maintain his pleasant smile.

“Mr. Barton. My name is Phil Coulson. I’m here to speak to you regarding your tax return.”

Phil had just enough time to be disappointed at the loss of that easy smile as Barton’s face hardened. He raised his fists and pounded them into the dough with a loud _thump_.

“Is that so?” he said.

“Yes, it is. Mr. Barton, is there somewhere we can speak? In private?” Phil asked.

Barton shrugged without leaving his kneading, and he managed to look damn graceful while doing it.

“Can’t leave it now or this whole batch will be ruined. I’m not gonna let that happen just because of some taxman in an expensive suit. So if you want to talk, you’re going to have to talk right here.”

Phil frowned and glanced around. The shop wasn’t packed, but there were still plenty of customers and more than a few were listening in.

“Ok. Mr. Barton, are you aware that you only paid part of your taxes last year?” Phil said.

“Yep.” The dough slapped down on the table as Barton continued to knead, and Phil told himself he really wasn’t impressed as he watched those bare biceps flex.

“It looks like just under 80 percent,*” Phil tried again.

“Your point, taxman?” Barton asked, looking at him coldly.

“Mr. Barton, you can’t just pay part of your taxes. That’s not how the system works.”

“Maybe I don’t like the system,” Barton replied. He rounded out the dough he was kneading and settled it into a prepared bowl before turning away to face Phil properly. He folded his arms across his chest with a casual air of self-assurance. Phil was very carefully tried to avoid cataloguing how it pulled the shirt tight across his chest and showed off his tattoos to great advantage.   “Maybe I don’t recognize your right to audit me,* Mr. Coulson.”

“Mr. Barton, I’m standing right here, auditing you,*” he said with a renewed frown. He straightened his shoulders and set his briefcase on the counter. “I realize this might be difficult for you, Mr. Barton. No one enjoys paying taxes. But there are consequences to refusing to pay.”

“What about the consequences of actually paying?” Barton said sharply. He leaned over the counter his eyes narrowed. “You know, I’m all for paying for better playgrounds, and good school systems, and shelters for homeless people. But do you know what I’m not in favor of? I’m not in favor of the corporate handouts and campaign funds that come out of my taxes. Tell me, tax man, how many times have my tax dollars helped bail Tony Stark out jail this year? How many times has it helped him develop weapons of mass destruction?”

“Mr. Barton, there are ways to express your disagreement with the system. However, not paying your taxes is a federal crime. So I’ll need to review your records for the last three years to determine the percentage you owe.”

“Well, I won’t be paying no matter what percentage,*” Barton said, chin stubbornly in the air.

Phil wanted to sigh at the rebellious young man in front of him, but he knew it would only make matters worse. “No, I know.   But the percentage determines how big your cell is.*”

He saw a muscle twitch in Barton’s jaw at that the remark, but the other man said nothing. He had a wordless exchange with the red head behind the register before he gestured at Phil to follow him and led the way to the stairs. At the top of the staircase a wide open room that clearly functioned as an office and a break room. There were restrooms visible and a small cloak room and closet at the back.

“You can work here,” Barton said, gesturing at the table. “I’ll grab our records.”

Phil set down his briefcase and looked around the place as he waited for the man to return. The loud sounds of heavy file drawers being slammed shut made him wince.

Phil was momentarily startled into appreciating Barton’s biceps as the man returned, until he realized the baker was carrying a large cardboard box. A large cardboard box that was _overflowing_ with papers. Phil felt his mouth gaping open and he snapped it shut. He thought he caught Barton smirking before he set down the box with a thump.

“There you go,” Barton said faux-cheerily. “Everything from the last three years.”

“You…keep your files like this?*” Phil asked, professional distaste seeping into his words.

Barton snorted. “Of course not. I’m actually very careful with my files—ask Natasha. I just did this to screw with you.*”

Phil breathed deeply for a few moments. “Well in that case, I’d better get started,” he said with a tight polite smile.

Barton shrugged, turning to start down the stairs. “Whatever. Come find me if you need anything.”

There was no sound but Phil sorting through papers and the bustle of the bakery downstairs for the next several hours. Eventually though, the woman from the register emerged from the stairwell, carrying a bowl of soup and a cup of tea. She set it down across from Phil and dropped into the seat across from him.

He became aware of her eyes on him as he sorted through the paperwork. She was eating slowly, eyes never leaving his face. Phil got the feeling he was supposed to be unnerved.

“Did you have a good shift?” he asked conversationally.

She was quiet for so long that Phil didn’t think she would answer.

“We made a profit,” she said with a shrug. “That will keep Clint happy.”

“Is that normally a problem?” Phil said with a frown before reminding himself that it really wasn’t any of his concern.

“Not anymore,” she said. “It was a challenge when we first started, but business has been good for the last year.”

“When you first started…are you a business partner?”

“No,” she said. “I never wanted to be tied down to the business. But Barton is family. You know how it is.”

“I…don’t really. Do you agree with all this?” he asked.

“No, I told him it was stupid. But it was his decision and I’ll back him.”

“It will be hard to back him if the business is shut down and Mr. Barton finds himself in prison,” Phil said bluntly.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to rely on you to keep him out of it,” she said, an eyebrow arched in his direction.

Phil paused, speechless, and she took the opportunity to stand up.

“I never got your name,” he said weakly.

“Natasha Romanoff,” she said. They shook hands, and then she disappeared down the stairs as quietly as she had arrived.

Phil spent three days putting _Hawkeye’s_ papers to rights and figuring out just what Clint Barton owed the government. During that time he also had the chance to see just how devoted to helping the community Barton actually was. The man set aside a portion of his food every day for the local food pantry and soup kitchen. The homeless and the unemployed of the neighborhood were welcome, and Barton often encouraged his well-off customers to pay for suspended coffees and sandwiches. He hosted free baking lessons for kids and Phil marveled at how patient he was when he showed them how to shape a pretzel or frost a cookie. It would be a shame for the neighborhood if the shop was to close, and slowly, Phil was beginning to piece together a plan to keep that from happening.

In the evening of the third day, Phil gathered together his things and made his way downstairs. The shop was closed and quiet, but the smell of baking permeated the air. When he came around the corner, Phil could see that Barton was alone in the bakery, quietly trading out racks of cookies in the oven. Phil cleared his throat.

“Tax man, you done for the night?” Barton called over his shoulder. Phil watched the other man bending in the front of the oven and then turning to set a pan of cookies to cool. He had to clear his throat again.

“Actually, I’m completely done,” he said. “I didn’t realize you baked this late in the day.”

“I don’t. But since you were gonna be here, I figured I might as well get something done. Gotta make the most of the time.”

Phil felt his face flush. “I didn’t realize I was keeping you late,” he said. “You should have told me.”

“Eh.” Barton shrugged. “You were doing your job. And I figured if you had anywhere better to be, you’d be there.

“You should sit,” he added. Phil watched him pull down a plate and a glass. “It’s not healthy for anyone to work that long. You must be starving.”

“I’m not…really,” Phil stammered, but Barton was already around the corner. He was carrying a glass of milk and a plate of cookies.

“Sit,” he said firmly.

Phil sat.

Barton sat across from him and pushed the food towards him. “Oatmeal raisin,” he said. “You seemed like the type.”

“You…made these for me?” Phil asked.

“You act like no one’s ever made you cookies before. Didn’t your mother make you cookies growing up?”

“My parents were dentists,” Phil said.

“You poor man.”

“These are really for me?”

Barton gave him a look that said, _duh,_ but he just pushed the plate closer. “Try ‘em and tell me they’re not your favourite.”

“I think I’ve figured out a way around your payment problem,” Phil said in reply.

Barton sighed in a way that Phil understood he thought Phil was hopeless, but he looked amused. “All right. Lay it on me, tax man.”

“All of the charity and community service work you do is deductible. If we add that all up, it should more than cover your unpaid balance. And you can continue doing that on future returns.”

“Sooo, no jail time?”

“No jail time,” Phil confirmed. “And you can continue on with the community works that you do and get credit for it.”

Barton cracked a smile at that, and this one reached his eyes. “In that case, we should celebrate. Eat your cookie.”

Phil reached for it, but stopped. “I…it….I can’t.”

“You…can’t?” Barton was looking at him like he was being really stupid indeed.

“I…It constitutes a bribe,” Phil said.

“You said you were done. Just eat the damn cookie.”

“I’m done reviewing your papers, but I’m still assigned to your case. So technically speaking, it’s—“

“—A bribe.”

Phil winced. “Technically speaking.”

“Fine. _Fine_.” Barton stood up, his face like thunder. He cleared the table with a swift motion.

“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” Phil started, but Barton cut him off.

“Of course you didn’t. You were just doing your job, weren’t you, _tax man_. That’s all you ever do, isn’t it?” he said, whirling around. Phil was surprised at how angry the man was. “You work until you can’t see straight, you don’t eat, you don’t talk to people. Paperwork is all you know how to do, isn’t it? You probably don’t give a shit if a place like this goes under, if people in this neighborhood have nowhere to go or no place to hang out. You’ve probably never had to worry about that a day in your life!”

“Mr. Barton, I—“

“No. I’ve had enough of you. Get out,” Barton said.

“Please, I’m—“

“Out,” Barton said firmly, pointing at the door.

Phil didn’t argue this time. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and left. He heard the lock snap shut behind him, and he winced at the sharp sound.

_Well, that went brilliantly._

\---

Because Phil Coulson was a Class A paperwork ninja, it only took five days for the paperwork to clear the proper channels, and by the seventh day, he was officially off Barton’s case.

On the sixth day he did two important things. First, he requested the next day off, and secondly, he went grocery shopping.

On the evening of the seventh day, he was standing outside the back door of _Hawkeye’s_ as Barton and Natasha stepped out to lock up. He watched as the redhead elbowed Barton not so subtly in the side.

“Nat, wha— Oh,” Barton said awkwardly.

Phil stepped forward, mindful of the hot pan in his hands.

“Clint Barton, I’m here to apologize for my horrible manners and my ungraceful handling of our last conversation. I’m…not the best at easy conversation, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, and I don’t always express myself well. But over the three days I spent here, I came to truly admire what you do here. You are a neighborhood superhero. You feed the hungry, help the needy. You’re practically Robin Hood. And I’m sorry that you thought that I came here to take that all away from you. That’s the last thing I want to do. This city needs more people like you. People who want to build swing sets instead of tanks. People who want to teach children and feed people handmade cookies.

“So I’m here to say I’m sorry, and to show it in the best way I can. I’m a terrible baker—like I said, my parents were dentists, so we never had sweets at home. But my mom taught me to make a mean lasagna. So I hope you can accept this lasagna and my apologies. And if you can’t, I promise to never darken your doorway again.”

Phil held out the pan and held his breath. Barton was standing on the step looking flabbergasted, and Phil felt his resolve weakening.

Natasha nudged Barton from the step.

“The correct answer, idiot, is ‘Yes, I’d love to invite you home for dinner’,” she said loudly.

“I, uh, yes, I mean, if you want to that is,” Barton stammered, still looking a little shocked.

“I’d like that, Mr. Barton,” Phil said.

“Clint. If you’re going to be having dinner with me, it’s Clint.”

“Phil,” Phil said with a smile.

Clint smiled back. “Phil,” he said.

\---

 _Several months later found Phil Coulson working at_ Hawkeye’s _part-time as accountant and part-time behind a register. (He’d been banned from the espresso machine, but he could make the pastries sell faster than anyone else Clint had hired.) The neighborhood was doing well, and if Coulson had called in a few favors from Tony Stark to get funding for some community projects, that was nobody’s business but his own._

_As for Phil and Clint, they were still going strong. Regulars heard an argument from the upstairs office at least once a week, but the two always worked it out. Phil claimed it was the homemade oatmeal cookies, and Clint claimed it was Phil’s miracle lasagna, (Natasha just claimed they were hopeless), but somehow, it always worked out in the end._

 

  
  



	3. Coffee Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C is for Coffee
> 
> Most people probably wouldn’t enjoy running a coffee shop in easy distance of a major university. After all, one had to have a strong stomach for hipsters, pretentious art students, trust fund babies, and a higher chance of poor tipping. But to Phil Coulson, it was the best possible job. After all, without it, he never would have met Clint Barton.

Most people probably wouldn’t enjoy running a coffee shop in easy distance of a major university. After all, one had to have a strong stomach for hipsters, pretentious art students, trust fund babies, and a higher percentage of bad tipping. But to Phil Coulson, it was the best possible spot.

“You must be crazy,” his best friend—a tall one-eyed son of a gun who favored trench coats, eye patches, and coffee as thick as tar—had said when Phil bought the place. “You must outta your goddamn mind.”

The same best friend, Nick Fury, had also purchased the first cup from The Agency and a commemorative mug, so he must have had a little faith in Phil.

Now it was three years on, and The Agency was thriving. The regulars were mainly students and business people from the nearby financial district. The tips evened out in the end. And waking up surrounded by the smell of coffee was a definite bonus. Phil was doing well enough that he had a steady stream of workers, most of which stayed for a few semesters before moving on. There was Steve, who Phil had watched grow from a pale, sickly freshman, to a full-grown man with the kind of body that could make him a swimsuit model. Then there was Darcy who worked mostly weekends. She had brought along her roommate Jane Foster, who Phil kept at the register. (After she had been taught to make coffee, Phil discovered she had a bad habit of scribbling equations in her phone.) Together, they were enough to give Phil some time off on the weekends, and he was content with that.

The first day Clint Barton walked into his shop was an unusually hot day a few weeks before school let out. When the man first stepped inside, he paused in the doorway, blinking at the abrupt lack of sunlight. The lunch rush was over and Phil was wiping tables in the empty café.

He smiled courteously, asking, “What can I get for you?”

The other man hesitated, and Phil took the time to look him over. He was young, twenty-three at the oldest, but he didn’t carry himself like the students Phil was familiar with. He held himself tightly, his smile tired around the edges. His clothes had seen better days: the black jeans were battered, and the t-shirt had holes around the seams and hem. It hung loosely as if the owner had once filled it out better.

“Looking for something to cool off with?” Phil prompted when his guest continued to be tongue-tied.

“Uh, not really. I was just hoping for some water,” the young man said awkwardly.

“Water and glasses are right over there. Help yourself,” Phil said, gesturing.

The young man went over and poured himself a glass, and Phil watched as he shifted to duffle under his arm, careful to keep it close. He stood there, looking around surreptitiously as he drank down the glass of water. Phil frowned.

“You can take that to a table, you know.”

“I’m not—I wasn’t really planning on buying anything.”

“That’s okay,” Phil said with a shrug. “The place is empty for now, and it’s usually just students who sit for hours anyway.”

The young man shrugged and refilled his glass. Phil noticed he picked a table where he could keep an eye on the front door, the restrooms, and the kitchen entrance. Phil’s mind leapt to several ideas of what that could mean before he firmly told himself to stop. Phil had been an army ranger and he’d always been an observant man, but it was really none of his business. So he tried to ignore the quite way the man watched the windows and fidgeted with an old flip phone.

The mid-afternoon peace was broken when the front door banged opened. The Agency’s single guest twitched, but Phil just sighed as he eyed the recently repaired doorstop.

“Hi Wade,” he said.

“Hiya, secret agent man,” Wilson said as he pranced up to the counter. “Can I get a mocha frap with hazelnut, toffee, caramel, and whip. And a cherry on top. And one panini with everything and extra banana peppers.” The kid dropped a twenty on the counter.

“Coming right up. A hazelnut, toffee, caramel, mocha frap, and panini,” Phil said. The stranger in the booth winced at the list of flavors and the movement drew Wade’s attention.

“Hey man—long time no see! How’s it hanging?”

He bounded over to the table where the stranger was sitting and plopped himself into the empty side of the booth. Phil winced pre-emptively.

“Uh, hey man,” Mr. Just-a-glass-of-water said.

Pretty soon Wade was off and running on some topic—something about an island of lost dinosaurs being found. Phil kept an eye on them as he made Wilson’s food. The stranger looked uncomfortable, but as Phil watched he seemed to unwind and pretty soon he was laughing along with Wade.

Wade ate like a starved dog and his plate was cleared in no time at all. As soon as he had finished eating his attention seemed to disappear and he was bouncing in his seat. In another minute, he was up and out the door.

The stranger was shaking his head as Phil walked up and slid a plate toward him. 

“What’s this?” the guy asked.

“A thank-you,” Phil said.

“But I don’t—“

“I know you weren’t planning on ordering anything, but this is a gift. Wade is—well, he puts a lot of people off, and he doesn’t have many friends. Sometimes he just needs someone to listen for a while. So this is a thank-you.”

“Not sure I deserve a sandwich for being a decent human being,” the younger man said. He only eyed the food for a minute though before he picked it up to eat.

“I’m Clint, by the way,” he said after the first bite. “Thanks again.”

“Phil,” Phil said. “And you’re welcome.”

Phil didn’t expect to see Clint again after he left that day, but the next day he came back. He walked in with a few bucks and ordered a plain coffee. Phil smiled, but let Steve serve him. They were having some minor trouble with a pipe and he was trying to avoid calling in a plumber. The water was shut off, and he had his tools out, but plumbing had never been his specialty.

Phil was crouched by the pipe trying to figure out what to do next when Steve walked into the back. Clint was trailing behind him.

“Phil, Clint here says he’s met you before. Says he knows his way around pipes if you need a hand.”

Phil frowned perturbedly up at Steve, knowing that the good natured young man would easily have confided to Clint that Phil could barely tell one wrench from another.

“I could give you a hand if you like,” Clint said. “As a thank you for the other day.”

Phil continued frowning for a moment but then sighed. “I could use one. But do you know how to do this?”

Clint nodded as he crouched down beside him. Phil noticed he was wearing the same beat-up jeans and shirt from the day before.

“My brother and I used to do odd jobs when we could get ‘em. It was our job to make sure everything kept running smoothly.”

“All right,” Phil said.

Clint grinned. “Not worried I’m gonna break something?”

Phil shrugged. “If you do, I’ll just have you bus tables for a month.” He wasn’t worried. He knew some people would consider his trust ill placed, but Phil had always been a good judge of character.

Pretty soon Clint was stretched out under Phil’s sink. Stray drops of water had fallen on him. The tip of his tongue was peeking out from between his teeth. Phil found himself getting distracted by a bare patch of skin as Clint’s shirt rode up every time the young man stretched. Despite his lank frame, Clint clearly had spectacular abs, and they flexed as he worked. Phil dragged his eyes away from that stretch of skin through an act of sheer will.

With a few grunts and clanks the damaged piece of pipe came loose and Clint slid back into view.

“Do you have the new pipe?” Clint asked.

Phil passed it to him and in just a few minutes Clint had it secured in place. Phil helped him up and then turned the water back on to test it.

“Great,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Uh, it’s nothing really, I just knew what to do,” Clint said, shrugging uncomfortably.

“Bull,” said Phil. He looked Clint level in the eye. “When you do work, never accept nothing for your time. You saved me a couple hundred dollars to get a plumber in here. So how much do I owe you?”

Clint held his eye, but eventually grimaced and looked away. “Twenty bucks.”

Phil wanted to sigh in exasperation, but all he said was, “Twenty bucks and lunch.”

Clint opened his mouth to object, but stopped him.

“I'm due for a lunch break and you did me a favor. I’d be grateful if you’d have lunch with me.”

That hadn’t come out exactly as it sounded in Phil’s head. Under the bright fluorescents of the kitchen, Clint’s ears went red where they peeked out from beneath his shaggy hair.

“All right then,” he said gruffly.

Phil passed him a twenty and led the way out to the front.

“Tell me what you’re hungry for and then go pick a seat.”

Clint did as Phil asked, and once he had headed off to find a table, Steve stepped up beside Phil.

“Who,” he asked, “is that?”

Phil looked at him blandly. “A customer.”

“A customer who fixes pipes? A customer you eat lunch with?”

Phil gave the bigger man a look, but Steve wasn’t deterred.

“Phil, I’ve barely seen you eat with us, and now you’re having lunch with a good looking ‘customer’.”

“He did me a favor. The least I can do is get him lunch.”

Steve gave him a knowing look that Phil ignored. 

“Give me a heads up if it gets too busy,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll be back in twenty.”

He carried his lunch and Clint’s out to the tables and sat down across from his new plumber. 

“Thanks,” said Clint awkwardly, reaching for a plate.

“You’re welcome,” Phil said. He smiled, and Clint’s ears went red again, but it was better hidden this time as he leaned forward to eat his sandwich. Phil let him eat in peace for a few minutes before he spoke.

“So where did you get so good at plumbing?” he asked.

“Like I said,” Clint said with a shrug, “it used to be up to my brother and me to keep things running. I'm actually better with other stuff—woodwork, assembly, electrical, but plumbing’s not bad.”

“Are you two working in the city now?” Phil asked.

“Uh, no,” said Clint. “I’m actually kind of just passing through.”

“Hmm,” Phil said thoughtfully. He was turning over an idea in his head. He looked at Clint carefully. “So you’re pretty good at repair and renovation work then?”

At Clint’s nod, he continued, “And I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I’m guessing you don’t have a job or anywhere to be.”

Clint flushed again, an ugly bright red, but he shook his head. 

Phil said, “I know a guy, a friend of Steve’s actually, who runs a construction business flipping houses. He’s looking for some more help for the summer, I think. I can ask, if you’re interested.”

Clint was looking at him with a stunned expression.

Phil hurried to add, “I can’t promise anything. But last I heard he was still.”

“But…you don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re a decent human being,” Phil said. “You helped me in the kitchen when he didn’t need to and you didn’t even ask to be paid. You sat with Wade the other day and you actually listened to him, which is more than most people would do.”

“I’m not exactly…look, I'm grateful, but I don’t really have the right paperwork to apply for a job, so…”

“Bucky’s not the kind of guy to care. If you’re willing to do the work, he’ll probably take you.”

“That would be…really great,” Clint said.

“I’ll talk to Steve about setting something up,” Phil said. He stood up and stacked their plates. “Can you wait for a little while?”

“Sure,” said Clint, still looking surprised.

Phil went to help Steve with the lunch rush and Clint waited at his table. The customers were lined up and Phil refocused his attention on orders. At one point, Phil glanced up to see Steve pause beside Clint’s table, dropping off a latte with a friendly smile. When Phil raised a pointed eyebrow at him, Steve just grinned mischievously.

When the rush finally died off, Phil caught Steve’s eye as they were cleaning up the counters.

“Does Bucky have any spots left on his summer crew?” Phil asked.

Steve shrugged. “It depends who’s looking.”

“I’ve got someone in mind,” Phil said, glancing toward the table.

“I’ll let Bucky know,” Steve said with smirk.

\---

By the time Steve got done with his break, the whole thing was settled.

“He wants to meet us at the bar tonight, to get a look at you, but if all goes well, you’ve got the job,” Steve told them.

Clint looked down at himself worriedly, but Steve just laughed. “Not like that. Bucky trusts me, and I trust Phil’s judgment, but his partner still has to meet you. If she doesn’t like you, it’s never going to work.”

“Well, that’s not discouraging at all,” Clint drawled sarcastically.

Later that night Phil met Clint outside of Steve and Bucky’s favorite bar. The guys were already inside and had been for a while. Clint had changed his shirt, Phil noticed, for something neater and cleaner. A faded band logo was scrawled across the front, and privately Phil thought it fit right in with the shaggy hair and ripped jeans. When Clint looked at him with a grin, Phil felt his insides warm.

“Any advice?” Clint asked.

“Be yourself. Bucky’s a fair guy and he’ll appreciate the honesty. Be polite around his partner, and don’t try to beat her in a drinking contest. She will drink you under the table and she won’t respect you in the morning.”

Clint gave him a look like he was trying to figure out if Phil was serious.

“Shall we?” Phil asked, gesturing to the door.

Clint nodded and straightened. He ran a quick hand through his hair and then they were inside. It was dim and warm and plenty loud inside the bar, and Phil wasn’t having any luck finding his friends. A second later Clint tugged on his arm and pointed out Steve, whose bright blond head stuck out in the crowd. They headed to the bar to grab some beers before making their way toward Steve’s group.

Steve greeted them both with a grin. “You guys made it! Phil, you know these guys. Clint, this is my buddy Sam and my best friend Bucky. Guys, this is Clint.”

“James Barnes,” Steve’s friend said, offering his hand.

Phil watched them shake hands and watched Clint take in the absence of Barnes’ other arm unfazed.

“So Phil says you’re looking for work,” Bucky said, drawing Clint aside. Phil left them to talk business and settled in to exchange gossip with Sam and Steve. They didn’t look up until Bucky called out:

“What do you think, Natasha?”

The men all turned and found a short redhead observing them. She walked up to Clint, looking him up and down. After holding his gaze for a few moments, she turned to Bucky.

“We can keep him.”

Sam and Steve cheered, and Phil saw Clint’s shoulders sag in relief. Bucky clapped Clint on the shoulder and ordered a round of vodka for the table. As they raised their glasses, Clint caught Phil’s eye. The smile on his face set off butterflies in Phil’s stomach.

\---

It was two months later and summer was in full swing when Steve poked Phil in the shoulder and nodded toward the door. Standing right inside the entrance to The Agency was Clint Barton. He looked like a new man. He was wearing a tank top that was new and clean, jeans that weren’t even fashionably ripped, and he had his hair cut short in a way that made Phil itch to run his fingers through it.

It had been two months since they’d seen each other. Bucky’s first jobs of the season had included flipping a pair of houses on the other side of the state, and Clint had settled in there with the rest of the crew. Phil got frequent updates through Steve, but he hadn’t been brave enough to ask the number for Clint’s new phone. The Clint who stood on his doorstep now looked…great. 

Clint was looking for him, and when he spotted Phil, he broke out in a grin.

“Hi,” he said when he reached the counter. “I was thinking of getting something to eat. Any chance you could join me?”

“Absolutely,” Steve said before Phil could open his mouth. “The boss is overdue for  
his break.”

He gave Phil a little shove. 

“I’ll have your food out in a minute,” he called over his shoulder, leaving Phil standing there. (Traitor.) 

“Coffee?” Phil asked weakly.

“Sure,” Clint said with a smile. 

Phil filled two mugs and made his way over to the booth where Clint was waiting. Clint shuffled his feet under the table before looking across at Phil.

“I wanted to say sorry for not being in touch for so long.”

Phil blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting, that wasn’t it. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he said. 

“Except that I kinda do,” Clint said. “You gave me a chance. Hell, you gave me more than a chance, you got me a job. And it’s turned out to be the best damn thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I know you probably guessed that I wasn’t in the best place, and there was a lot of shit that went down between my brother and me. So I figured the least I could do was come back and say thank you.”

Clint’s shoulders were hunched and he was staring down at the table. Phil found himself distracted by that hair again.

“I like the haircut, by the way,” Phil found himself saying.

Clint looked up in surprise. “I…Yeah?” Phil nodded, and Clint smiled. “It was Nat’s idea. She always has the best ones.”

Phil was impressed that the fearsome Natasha Romanov had become ‘Nat’ in a mere two months, but before he could ask, Steve arrived with their food. The blond left as quickly as he had come, but the moment was broken.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Phil said. “I appreciate you coming to visit, I really do, but you shouldn’t feel obligated.”

Clint shrugged one shoulder. “To be honest, it’s not the only reason I’m here.”

“Oh?” Phil frowned.

“Yeah. I was wondering…” Clint took a deep breath and then kept going. “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me?”

“I—are you sure?” Phil asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Clint told him.

“I’m too old for you. I’m fifteen years older than you, at least. And you work with plenty of young, attractive people—”

“Who all tell me I’m an idiot for not asking you out already,” Clint said. His face dimmed a little. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I just wanted to…”

“Hey, no.” Phil grabbed his hand across the table. “I want. Believe me, I definitely want. Ever since you were stretched out under my sink, I’ve wanted to. Maybe before. I just figured it was just me. That’s why I’ve been ignoring Steve’s hints so long.”

Clint was grinning. “So we’re both idiots.”

“Looks like.” Phil was grinning back.

“So you wanna get dinner some time?”

“Sounds perfect,” Phil said.


	4. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D is for Demons
> 
> “Twelve targets down, Black Widow still at large,” Barton breathed, praying that the comm in his ear would pick it up, but the demon below him wouldn’t.
> 
> No such luck. The demon’s head shot up as his comm crackled out, “Hawkeye, do you have the shot?”
> 
> In his ear, Coulson repeated the question and the demon’s face swung in his direction. A slow smile played along its lips.
> 
> “Come out, come out wherever you are,” she singsonged in perfect American English.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a Supernatural AU, although it's possible some of the language or imagery may have been influenced by it. As usual, it's edited only by me, so feel free to let me know of any errors.

**C L I N T**

Clint lay quiet in his perch, nestled carefully between the supports of the warehouse’s catwalks, watching the proceedings below. The mob boss in his sights was laying out a deal for a new high profile client. Barton wondered idly if he knew the pretty girl on his arm was a demon. Some men found the prospect of that kind of danger thrilling. But Barton doubted he knew that the woman was the Black Widow, the most famous assassin the Red Room had ever produced. Only an idiot would think they could survive that.

Barton watched as money changed hands and a quiet click sounded in his ear. But before the ground team could move in, the Widow sprang into action. Barton relayed the movement and then sat back as she took out the men more efficiently than any human could. Her nails were more like claws as she ruthlessly tore out throats and slashed eyes. Black smoke rolled out of her mouth and choked more than one man before she even reached for them. In less than a minute she was standing surveying the pile of bodies. She was panting lightly and blood ran freely down one side of her face. She found the mob boss and spat on the corpse, cursing him out in Russian that was too strong for Barton’s limited understanding.

The comm buzzed in his ear—it was Coulson, the team leader, checking for an update. 

“Twelve targets down, Black Widow still at large,” Barton breathed, praying that the comm in his ear would pick it up, but the demon below him wouldn’t.

No such luck. The demon’s head shot up as his comm crackled out, “Hawkeye, do you have the shot?”

Below him, the demon was craning its neck, twisting this way and that to catch a glimpse of him. It had heard him, but it hadn’t spotted him yet. He held as still as possible with his eyes half lidded against the light.

In his ear, Coulson repeated the question and the demon’s face swung in his direction. A slow smile played along its lips.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” she singsonged in perfect American English.

“Shit,” Barton grunted as he tried to scoot out of his spot. On the ground the demon was striding across the floor to his position.

“Report,” Coulson ordered.

“I’ve been made,” Clint answered as he wriggled backwards. Adrenaline was pumping through him as he fought to gain some ground before the redhead caught up with him.

“Get out of there, Hawkeye. We’ve got backup coming to you.”

“Negative. She’ll go through our guys as fast as she went through these. I’m going to try and get a clear line of sight on my way out.”

“No heroics, Hawkeye. We need you out safe.”

Barton grunted in acknowledgement as the demon came closer. He made sure he had the right arrow selected before dropping onto a lower catwalk in her line of sight.

Their eyes met for a moment and he felt the breath go out of him. “Oh shit,” he found himself saying.

“Hawkeye, status. Hawkeye!”

The demon chose that moment to lunge for him, and Barton flung himself higher into the beams. She began clambering up after him.

“Coulson, her eyes,” he panted out, not bothering to be quiet. “They’re red. Not black—red.”

He heard muffled cursing in the background, but Coulson was as calm and steady as ever. 

“She’s still a threat, Hawkeye. Disengage and get back here.”

Barton would normally make a smart remark, but this time he couldn’t. The look in those eyes was one he knew too well to ignore. He dropped several levels to a dusty shelf and ducked behind a pile of crates for cover. He could hear the demon closing in on him as he dropped his bow.

“Negative, Coulson,” he replied. He pulled out both his handguns and switched to nonlethal rounds. “She’s still alive in there, and I think I’ve got a shot. “

He barely let Coulson begin protesting before he interrupted. “Look, Coulson, we both know I’m not gonna make it out alive if this doesn’t work. But I‘m sure as hell gonna try first.”

He raised a hand to his comm. “I’ll call you when I’m done.” He thumbed the comm off.

The demon chose that moment to come around the corner. Her teeth were bared in a vicious grin. Barton raised his weapons as she leapt and hoped like hell this wasn’t the last stupid decision he ever made.

 

**P H I L**

An hour later a wide-eyed agent let Barton in through the back door of the safehouse. The Black Widow was sprawled across his shoulders, her head and limbs dangling. Barton himself was limping. Cuts and new bruises covered his face and arms.

“Agent Barton,” Coulson said lowly as he stepped into the room. He surveyed them both, taking in the torn clothes and blood. “She better be dead, Agent.”

“No sir,” Barton said, and the stubborn bastard didn’t even look apologetic.

Coulson pursed his lips. “Is she secure?”

“Three tranqs and a blow to the head. Should hold her for a while,” Barton said.

“Then set her down and step into my office,” Coulson said. He watched as Barton laid her on the couch far to gently for his liking. The agent settled her arms across her chest and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. Then he straightened and followed his SO into the temporary command office.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Coulson demanded lowly. Barton’s stubborn expression was still in place.

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said.

“How? By bringing her here? You’ve put the entire operation at risk. Every agent in that room is now in danger while you’re trying to do the right thing. Look me in the eye and tell me this is about her, and not about you trying to repay a debt.”

“It’s not,” Barton said sharply. “She’s an innocent—she got mind fucked by a demon and taken over by one for who knows how long. We’re supposed to be the good guys. We’re supposed to help.”

“I don’t disagree,” Coulson said. “We can help her. We can help her find some peace.”

“We can—“

“Let me remind you Barton that she is a trained Red Room agent. They train the best and the brightest and the most dangerous. She was probably plenty dangerous before this ever happened to her. And if, as you’re suggesting, she was an innocent that got dragged into this—she’s been carrying that demon for at least two years now. There’s a very good chance that it’s driven her insane. She may be beyond begging for mercy and dangerous in her own right.”

“We should still try to help her. She deserves that much.”

“And if she comes out of it a rabid animal?”

“She deserves to at least die human. Not as a body bag for that thing.”

Coulson sighed. “Barton, even if we wanted to, SHIELD facilities are five hours away.”

“I can do it here,” Barton said.

Coulson just looked at him. “You know the procedure?” 

Barton nodded.

“The whole thing?”

Again a nod.

Coulson closed his eyes. It was hard to believe he was even contemplating this. The ritual was difficult and dangerous to whoever was performing it. Despite what Barton said, Coulson still thought that he was probably doing it for his own sake, at least as much as the girl’s. Coulson had trusted Barton’s judgment for a long time now. The man saw things other people missed. Life had taught him to be a keen judge of behaviour and he was rarely wrong about people. Coulson thought about the girl passed out on the couch. Worn and tired looking for one so young, the bright curls highlighted the sallowness of her skin. 

Coulson had found himself wishing from time to time that they could save one from time to time. Usually by the time SHIELD arrived, the demon had taken over completely, leaving nothing human behind. But now and then, there was one that lingered. There was the one with the bright eyes who had looked him beseechingly from a field of bodies. Another who had had a mind to rival Stark’s before their possession, who nearly brought down the entire eastern seaboard a few years ago. But Coulson had put them down. That was the job—without it, the world would have been overrun years ago.

He opened his eyes and looked at Barton.

“How many people do you need?”

“Just one,” Barton said. “Someone strong enough to restrain her.”

Coulson nodded. “And what else?”

“Candles help. And we need some kind of talisman: an object of power. I figure if we can get into a church, we can—“

“We are not breaking into a church, Barton,” Coulson said impatiently. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He fished out the necklace beneath. “Will this do? It’s not exactly sacred, but it’s meant to be for protection.”

Barton stepped closer gently grasping the pendant. It was a round piece of bone, worn smooth over the years, with runes carved across the surface. Coulson watched as Barton ran a thumb around the edge. 

“What’s its story?” Barton asked quietly, still looking at the pendant.

“My mother gave it to me when I first shipped overseas. She said it was to keep me safe. I don’t know if it can stand up to demons, but I’ve kept it with me.”

“And you’ve worn it? Next to the skin?”

Coulson nodded.

“It’ll work,” Barton said.

Coulson eased the necklace over his head and passed it to Barton. “Let’s get this done then. I don’t want the Black Widow waking up in the middle of my op.”

They joined the rest of the team in the main room where Coulson ordered everyone else to the evac point. At the looks of protest he added, “Hawkeye and I will take care of the Widow. In the meantime, the rest of you will head to the extraction point. I want all of you out of here in five minutes. Now move.”

As the agents around them began packing away SHIELD equipment, Agent Park caught his eye. He shook his head, and she frowned but didn’t say anything. Barton was carefully lifting the girl from the couch and moving her to the floor. She lay there as agents hurried around her. As the team left, Agent Park paused in the doorway

“Good luck, sir,” she said. Then she shut the door and locked them in.

The room was uncomfortably open in Coulson’s opinion, but Barton didn’t seem to notice. He had already slipped off his shirt and was clearing the floor around the Widow. He lined up three candles on the windowsill and placed another beside Coulson. Barton stripped off the Widow’s jacket and tugged down the neck of her shirt before looking at Coulson.

“You’ve seen this done before?” he asked.

Coulson nodded. “A few times. Mostly in SHIELD facilities. Once by a field medic. It didn’t…in the end we had to put them both down.”

Barton nodded seriously. “It can get pretty ugly if you’re unprepared. The stronger the demon is, the harder they fight.

Almost as if it had heard, the body on the floor twitched and moaned.

“Good metabolism,” Coulson muttered as he tugged off his suit jacket. 

“Are you keeping the shoulder holster?” Barton asked, eyeing it.

“I’d rather have it. It’s not like she can’t kill us without it.”

Barton shrugged and lifted the Widow under the shoulders. Coulson slid into place behind her and restrained her arms.

The ritual began as Coulson remembered. Barton was kneeling in front of the Widow, eyes half lidded as he began chanting a bastard mixture of lines in Hebrew, Chinese, and Greek. The words were mostly unfamiliar, so Coulson focused on his charges instead. The Black Widow had begun to breathe more heavily, a sign that the demon inside was reacting to the chant, even if the body was still unconscious.

Barton’s recitation got louder and as it did the Widow became more and more aware. It started to struggle in Coulson’s arms—laconic movements that had muscle behind them nonetheless. Coulson watched Barton pull the necklace from a pocket. He held it above the candle so the pendant dangled in the flame. The Widow thrashed in Coulson’s arms.

Barton met his eye. “This part’s going to suck,” he said matter-of-factly. “Hold her still.”

He jerked the pendant out of the flame and into his hand as he began reciting the final part. He pressed his palm to the Widow’s bare chest. She screeched and Coulson held on tightly as she tried to drag herself away. She twisted all the same and Barton fell forward. Coulson had a moment to think it was all over before he realized that Barton still had his hand and the pendant held fast to the Widow’s skin—now at her shoulder. He continued the chant, shouting out the last lines as the demon screamed and writhed under his hand. Then Barton was screaming along with her, screaming as if the demon was riding his bones and not hers. Coulson—incredibly, unbelievably—felt her shoulder growing hot against his own until his searing into his own skin. He blinked back white spots in his vision.

She howled one last time before black smoke, thick and sickly sweet, rolled forth from her mouth. The sound died abruptly and she sagged back against him. Barton collapsed and Coulson found himself supporting all their weight. He eased himself out of the pile and checked for pulses. The Widow’s was a little weak, but steady. Coulson was relieved to find Barton’s was even stronger, despite the fact that shaking his shoulder roused no more than a groan from the man.

With two assassins who were both dead to the world on his hands, Coulson set about heating some soup and radioing SHIELD for transport. Then he sat back to wait.

The Black Widow was unconscious throughout their trip back to the United States and stayed that way for two days longer. Coulson was beside her in one of the medical rooms in containment when she began to wake. She was still heavily restrained since they’d had no indication what condition she might be in when she woke.

Coulson watched her blink slowly against the bright fluorescent lights, eyes blearily taking stock of her surroundings.

After she had taken stock of the room, her eyes moved back to him.

“Why am I here?”

It was a rasp of a voice from a woman who hadn’t had a sip of water in days and had spent her last waking moments screaming.

“That’s not an easy question to start with,” Coulson said, leaning on the rail of the bed. “You’re in a secured SHIELD location until such time that it can be ascertained if you are threat, an asset, or an innocent. You’re alive because one of my agents thought the demon could be removed from your system.

“Was he right?” Coulson studied her face intently.

“The monster is gone.” Coulson was already certain of that—he had witnessed it in the safehouse and SHIELD’s tests confirmed it. “It’s just me…whatever I am.”

Coulson watched the woman on the bed, who was fading by the moment. “And what do you think you are?”

“Not an innocent. Not for a long time,” the woman sighed out before falling back asleep once more.

The next time she woke she asked the question again.

“Because one of my agents thought you could be saved,” Coulson said.

She lay quietly for a while, looking down at her feet. “Why did he think that?”

“Your eyes. Everyone knows that a demon’s eyes will show black from time to time. There’s an old story that says that the eyes of a person not yet killed by the demon shine red instead of black. Trouble is, the only person who can see the difference is someone who was once possessed themselves. So for a long time, people thought it was only a story.”

“And your agent, he saw this?”

Coulson nodded. “He did.”

She was quiet for a time after that before turning her head away. “I want to sleep now,” she said softly.

Coulson waited her out, and eventually she did sleep. But it took a long time.

Over several more visits, Coulson learned her name— _Natalia Romanova_ —and how she’d been taken over.

_“They said I could choose which one of us it took. Him or me. I thought I was being merciful when I said me. I thought he would stop me.”_

_“Who?”_

_“The Soldier._

_“He didn’t stop me.”_

As the Black Widow began regaining her strength, he asked again, “Are you an asset or a threat?”

“I don’t know.”

Coulson thought that was the only answer he was going to get, but she spoke up again.

“I am dangerous, but I don’t want to fight you. I owe you and SHIELD my freedom from the monster. I would work with you if I could. I would…seek atonement. Seek vengeance, if I could.”

She looked up at him.

“The people who made me choose, some of them are dead, but there are many more like them. They will force others to choose. They find little girls and make them into human monsters. I would turn my skills on them. Cut them down till there are none left.”

“It’s possible we could come to an arrangement,” Coulson said. “You were under the demon’s influence a long time, and it’s going to take a long time for us to trust you. It’s going to take a lot of work, on both sides. But I’d like to get to know who you really are.”

“So would I,” she said. 

 

**N A T A S H A**

Natasha blamed the comedown from the adrenaline rush of a good op for missing the booby traps on the safe house. By the time the world stopped spinning, Barton was cursing up a storm on the comms and, from the sounds of things, breaking in through a window. She slipped inside the now crumbling wall, and made her way through the front rooms, gun at the ready.

She nearly shot Coulson, who was picking himself off the floor, his suit covered in chalky dust.

“Jesus Coulson, are you all right?”

Coulson rolled his shoulders and straightened his tie as he turned to her.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said, his smile wide.

His smile was too wide. And his eyes…

Natasha dove for cover as he lunged at her. She twisted, trying to get a shot at him as he dove after her. 

“Clint!” she shouted. “It’s in Phil!”

She heard Clint make a noise like a wounded animal over the comms, and then it was on top her. They struggled for the gun. The demon took a widow’s bite to the neck without a blink, and when she landed an actual bite, it yanked her head back. It spat black smoke at her, trying to choke her out. The move gave her just enough room, and she took the shot. The bullet went through Phil’s shoulder and it distracted the creature enough that she could slam its head into floor.

A moment later, a tranq dart flew over her shoulder and buried itself in Phil’s chest. Barton strode into the room with a face like thunder. 

“What color were his eyes, Tasha?”

“Clint—“

“What color, Tasha?!”

“They were red,” she said. Her voice was calm, but her hands trembled. 

“Good,” he said. 

“Clint, we have to get out town and we don’t have any back up. Coulson would want—“ 

“Shut up! Don’t you dare tell me what Coulson would want. Are really you going to tell me you can just walk away? Really Tash?” 

He was shaking too, she noticed. Her eyes prickled, and why the fuck were they doing that, it was distracting her.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Goddamn it, Tasha, if you’re going to put a bullet in his brain, you’re gonna have to put one in mine too. I’m not leaving him here.”

He crouched down in front of her so he could look into her eyes.

“Nat, are you gonna help me do this? We can get him back, but I need to know you have my back.”

She searched his face, and after a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”

Clint breathed out. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

\---

A few days later, they were sitting by Phil’s bedside sharing a crossword when Fury walked in. He took a moment to survey the scene before shaking his head.

“You two are a pair of crazy motherfuckers,” he said, moving to stand at the foot of the bed.

Natasha and Clint looked at each other. She looked back at Fury and shrugged one shoulder.

“Goddamn it,” he said feelingly. He stared down at Phil, who was sleeping quietly.

“You know, for a long time I hoped we’d get a team together who’d all been hosts. Our people are good, but the skills you guys retain…Hawkeye’s eyesight, your physical abilities…we’ve got nothing on that.” He was still staring at Phil. “I just wish the price wasn’t so high.”

Natasha watched Fury watch Phil sleep, tracking as his chest rose and fell. After a few minutes, he shook his head again.

“Look after yourselves,” he said, heading for the door. “And don’t let him overdo it.”

Natasha shared a fond look with Clint before stealing the crossword from his lap to fill in sixteen down. SHIELD looked after its own, and they looked after each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strike Team Delta, my ot3.
> 
> If anyone has suggestions for the letter E, I am all ears.


End file.
